Bad Mom

...I may have to turn off the comment section for this post, already I can feel the waves of disapproval wafting off my computer screen...

My dad finally had his hip replacement surgery. When we went to the hospital to visit he was all morphed up on pain killers and white as a ghost. He was also wearing a pair of white tights. "You look like a medieval prince, dad," I said fondly, but I guess experiencing pain and being forced to wear pantyhose just wasn't a good combination for him, and he growled at me. My dad has never growled at me in my life, and I must confess, it made me feel terrible. Note to self: No more references to dad's faggy post-surgery attire until he gets his sense of humour back.

I can't remember the last time I was in a hospital. My dad was lucky, he was bunking with another hip replacement guy and he got the bed beside the window. This was good news for me, too, because I went with my mom to visit, and had he been in the other bed there would have been no place for me to sit. As it was, I got the window ledge, not the most comfortable spot in the world, and knowing my ass was getting little radiator line indentations sitting there was not that pleasant. Mmmm, it sure was nice and warm though. And I especially enjoyed stuffing my face with my dad's Get Better Soon chocolates. I had downed approximately half the box and was sitting there enjoying the sugar rush when a nurse came running into the room with a look of absolute horror on her face. I figured the guy in the next bed was dying or something, but no, she headed straight towards...me.

"Look, it is totally your decision, you're the mom," she said breathlessly, "but that floor is absolutely filthy, you might want to reconsider letting your baby crawl around on it."

I looked down at Baby Fangs playing contentedly on the floor. Visions of sick old men lying in pools of vomit, feces and HIV-infected blood came rushing into my head. Yuck! But...then again... hmmm... you know.... she sure looked happy crawling down there... and those little snacks she kept finding and shoving into her mouth meant that I wouldn't have to feed her lunch... Damn that Nurse Busybody all to hell, I thought, because, really, did I have any other choice but to pick her up and do the Good Mom act? That sucked. Baby Fangs is perfect, but she's still a baby with the attention span of a 37-year-old pack rat trying to clear out a basement. Entertaining her is not that fun when you are sitting uncomfortably on a radiator with metal ridges pressing into your bum. Also, she's getting pretty heavy and holding 23 pounds of squirming flesh isn't easy. So when the coast was clear and Nurse Ratchet was out of sight, I put her down again. Unfortunately, she came back. And this time, she didn't hide her disgust.

"She has something in her mouth, you know," she said severely.

"Oh, yah, right, I..."

"It's a USED THERMOMETER LID," she said, raising her voice a little. When I didn't react immediately, she repeated impatiently, "It's USED. You don't know where it's been."

"Ooops, I thought it was a, uh, juice box straw," I said, totally lying, and yanked it out of her mouth. I'm still uncertain as to what the big deal was, I mean, it was the LID, not an actual thermometer that had been in someone's mouth. "Look lady, this baby is a survivor," I wanted to say, but I knew this would not rid me of the nurse's disapproving stare, so for the remainder of the visit I kept old Fangsie in my arms. What a waste of energy! Our house is at least fifty thousand times filthier, not to mention more dangerous than any dirty hospital floor: Her chance of nosocomial infection is really pretty small compared to the risks she takes living with us in this styhole.

I know I often make references to this place being a bomb site, but now that the big clean-out has begun in earnest, it's absolutely insane. I did the smartest thing I've ever done in my life, and told Mr. IQ's parents that their granddaughter was almost killed last week, and they have rallied to my support. His dad is driving into town this week with his truck, and he's gonna help move all the excess crap into a rented storage space for us. This was his excellent idea. I love him. I know it's a temporary, not to mention ridiculous, solution, but until Monsieur IQ figures out a thing or two, it's the best thing we can do. Perhaps by next week I'll be able to post pictures of two lovely, empty rooms.

PS: It's been five days since we made the trip to the hospital. Baby Fangs has never been healthier.